Revelation
by K'sChoiceofAFI
Summary: You're pretty sure you've hit puberty. And not the puberty in the sense that you're growing breasts and getting your period because, been there, done that. But puberty in the sense that you're starting to become attracted to the most random things like low tones of voices, people innocently brushing against various parts of your body, hugging.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Revelation

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry

**Rating: **R

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.

**Summary: **You're pretty sure you've hit puberty. And not the puberty in the sense that you're growing breasts and getting your period because, been there, done that. But puberty in the sense that you're starting to be attracted to the most random things like low, intimate tones of voices, people innocently brushing against various parts of your body, hugging.

**A/N 1**: AU, I suppose since this takes place sophomore year and Beth just doesn't exist. I sometimes can't help but wonder how different Quinn would have been had sleeping with Puck never happened. So occasionally I just pretend it didn't…

**A/N 2:** I may come back to this and make it a two-shot, but I don't know. I'm kind of a sucker for unrequited lust. And I enjoy getting into Quinn's head and the result is a tangled and confused mess. This poor girl. Also, full-on second person in this fic, because I _adore _this POV, but don't write it often because not many share my love for it, haha. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

You don't too much care for people. And your apathy isn't at all natural, but you've felt this way ever since Lucy Caboosey began to stick, and no one's proven themselves worthy of giving a damn about since, so no. You'd much prefer to _not_ take care of the fake, plastic baby at the front of the classroom with a partner for the next month.

Mrs. Williams is just simply _ecstatic_, and it only serves to piss you off more as your elbow sinks into the unforgiving wooden desk and you rest your head in your hand. Your eyes are sharp as they walk over your fellow classmates to find that no one is really paying two brain cells worth of attention.

No one, except Rachel Berry, teacher's pet extraordinaire.

She's diligently taking notes, though the teacher is only going over the basics that anyone who can spell their name correctly on an IQ test would be able to understand without jotting down word for fucking word, ver-fucking-batim.

(You're kind of angry with the world, but you don't let that stop you from going to church on Sundays.)

Rachel's posture is impeccably rigid, as rigid as her hair with its serial killer straightness, and anally retentive curled bangs.

Literally, everything about her makes you sick.

Even down to her plaid skirt that doesn't match her sweater _at_ _all_, but she still has the nerve to waltz into school every day like she's going to win prom queen in two years. Her back has this subtle arch to it that starts where her neck ends and curls increasingly inward until your eyes drop to her lower back, then her ass dares to protrude backwards as if she's looking for lewd attention while taking notes in home ec.

Her thighs are pressed tightly together and you wonder with a snicker how her crotch can even _breathe_—

You turn away quickly. Your eyes are large and round in your head as you blink them repeatedly as if that can erase the thought you just had. You ignore everything that just transpired the past three minutes as you face forward again to give the teacher your full attention.

Good girls didn't think about crotches. Good girls didn't even _know_ the word crotch.

And you had just thought about fugly, fugly, two-by-four, Rachel Berry's crotch.

"Ugh," you mutter in disgust to yourself, and Santana cuts you an odd look that's half amused and half curious.

"_Berry_," you mouth exaggeratingly with an even more exaggerated eye roll, and Santana giggles like you had a few minutes ago, except she isn't giggling at the thought of a crotch like a pre-pubescent boy like you were.

Your day sucks already, and you're over it.

"Quinn Fabray?"

Your neck elongates swan-like at the sound of your name and your eyes zero in on the teacher.

"Your partner is Rachel Berry."

And good, wholesome girls don't swear, but you mutter, "Fuck," under your breath anyway.

* * *

Rachel's not exactly over-the-top excited like you were expecting, but you can smell the stench of hopefulness on her as she cradles the hard plastic baby to her chest like it's real and stares up at you like she's waiting for you to get up from the couch and go buy a bag of diapers because Jr.'s soiled them all.

"What do you think we should name her?" Rachel asks in a breath, quick and buzzing energy by your side and you purposefully ignore her for a second as you grab your textbooks.

"What makes you think she's a she?" you finally ask.

"I—well, she has on a pink bonnet, so…"

You look down at the 'baby' for the first time since class when you simply glanced at it then handed it to Rachel. "So it does…"

"_She_," Rachel emphasizes, and right then and there you know the next month is going to be challenging. She rambles on about how refusing to call your child by her appropriate gender will give her identity issues when she's older, and that if you don't stop, Rachel will be forced to note that in the journal that the two of you have to keep until the month is up and it's a pretty large percentage of your grade along with the baby being returned in one piece with no permanent ink tattoos on her person. And your eyes can't help but drop to Rachel's lips and wonder how they don't get tired because you're sure Rachel spends like, twenty-three hours a day talking, only allotting one hour of deep sleeping a night where she's finally quiet.

You slam your locker shut and only then does Rachel shut the fuck up for a change. "_Fine_."

She looks relieved, then smiles brightly at you before hoisting the baby higher. "I know that…we don't really get along, Quinn, and I know that you don't like me, and draw pornographic images of me—" You regret the day you ever confessed to that, "But this project is a huge percentage of our grade and I know a fellow honor student such as yourself won't let petty differences be the deciding factor in whether we pass or fail this."

And she's right about one thing, there's absolutely nothing, not even your dislike for Rachel Berry of all people, that will stop you from getting a good grade on an assignment.

You clutch your books to your chest and spin on your heel because you have Spanish soon. Rachel falls in step beside you, giant grin still in place. "So, names?"

You open your mouth, but she beats you to the punch.

"I've been throwing Barbra, Liza, and—"

"I don't like any of those names," you mutter. Everyone in the hallway is staring at you with judgmental eyes for walking down the hallway with Rachel, and it's kind of getting under your skin as your fingers curl tightly around the spiral notebook in your arms until indentations form on your skin.

You can see your classroom just down the hall and you're so close to ultimate relief that you almost smile to yourself.

"Hey, Rachel!"

You know that voice.

You swivel around to find Finn jogging over to the two of you, more specifically Rachel, and he looks so big and goofy that you can't help but wonder what you ever saw in him. He gives Rachel a dopey grin and you are _not_ at all jealous as she returns it with white teeth and pink gums.

"Good morning, Finn," Rachel chirps, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and your eyes roll at her Baby Gap version of flirting. "H-how are you today?"

You hadn't heard her sound like _that_, shy and nervous, in the past ten minutes you were talking to her and your eyebrow flicks up at the way her head lowers demurely. You tilt your head back to stare at the ceiling as the question _why_ _me?_ floats around your head, and your jaw works back and forth in annoyance at Finn's charmed chuckle at Rachel's bashfulness.

The warning bell rings and you shoot Finn a look that commands _come with me_ as you rip the baby from Rachel's arms to finally get her attention. She turns around with alarmed eyes, and you force a smile that honestly looks scary as you glare down at her. "I'll take her for this class, and we can swap after lunch."

Rachel's apprehension is visible in the lines of her body, but she bites her lip and nods anyway, and you don't even say goodbye as you walk away because of how livid you are at their obvious flirting in front of you as if you weren't Finn's girlfriend first.

"Cute baby," Finn says conversationally as the two of you walk in class, and you level him with a look that inquires just how much of a moron is he if he thinks you're going to talk to him after that little stunt.

"Super cute baby, Q," Brittany gushes in excitement as you sit down beside her and you smile exaggeratedly so Finn can see how much more you like her than you like him at the moment.

"Thanks, B."

You glance down at the baby with more interest than you had earlier now that you realize how important she is to Rachel, and you can't help but wonder why. She's hard and cold with a face frozen into an icy smile and big, blue eyes that neither you nor Rachel have. She looks nothing like either of you, but she's worth a huge grade and you fathom maybe that's why Rachel cares so much already.

When class ends, Rachel is standing dutifully outside the door, and you walk past her because you're pretty sure she's waiting for Finn, but instead she walks faster to catch up with you, and she grins when she glances down at the baby in your arms and realizes there's no damage done. "How was she?"

You sigh at the stupid question, but then glance over your shoulder to find Finn looking jilted in the doorway, and suddenly you can play this game, very well.

"She was great," you murmur. "Very quiet."

"She gets that from you," Rachel gushes like you guys _actually_ have a child together, and—whatever. Finn's pissed right now and that's all that matters.

You look down at the smile on her face once more, then continue walking down the hallway with the baby in your arms and Rachel by your side. "Yeah."

* * *

"I just don't understand why that school of yours is perpetuating same-sex relationships with this new project," Russell declares with a stern furrow of his brow at the dinner table.

You had foolishly brought Little-Baby-What's-Her-Name to the dinner table to show your parents in some form of muted excitement. Judy's smile was bland and indulgent, though her reaction was better than your father's, who still can't wrap his mind around the fact that you're partnered with a girl to 'raise a baby.'

"The point of the project is to show everyone that raising a child isn't easy. They're trying to cut down on teenage sex and promote abstinence."

"Isn't that what the celibacy club is for?" Judy chimes in after a moment and Russell nods his head gravely in agreement.

"A club which you're president of. You don't need this assignment when you're the poster child of celibacy," Russell decides.

Your rigid, domineering personality comes from him and you don't pretend otherwise. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter now since I have to do the project and it's thirty percent of my grade."

Judy's eyes widen, which surprises you because you thought she had tuned out by now like she always does. "Then you had better do it."

Russell frowns. "She's in a same-sex relationship, raising a baby."

"This isn't _real_, you know," you advertise, like waving a flag across the table in order to be heard. Your father doesn't much care for gay people. He's just shy of homophobic and firmly believes that one man lying with another is a ticket straight to hell.

You don't really have a stance, especially since two of your closest friends like to 'lie down with one another' daily. And Kurt's a pretty cool guy who just screams flaming. So, yeah. You're fine with people who are gay, or bi, or whatever other sexuality that means the same sex is occasionally 'lying down together', as long as that doesn't come your way.

The conversation seems never-ending as Russell shoots straight into a rant about how a gay guy back in high school got hit by a car and it _certainly_ had to do with karma coming back to bite him in his ass because of his abnormal ways, and you just get up, grab the baby and slink up the stairs to your room.

Your phone is lying on the bed and you scoop it up before lying sideways across it and scroll through your contacts. Finn's still in there and you spend about five minutes contemplating deleting his number before you decide that you guys have a class together, and glee club, and maybe that number will come in handy one day if you forget an assignment. Curiously, you open up the last message he sent to you. Your eyes narrow as you read it over and you suddenly remember why you never responded back.

_shes really cool once you get 2 know her and shes nice and accepting and really youre neither of those things so you cant be mad at me for actually wanting to hang out with her and stuff  
_

You exit out of the message quickly as your chest begins to hurt. It seems that Rachel is everything you aren't, and you get that, but that doesn't mean that you had to lose your boyfriend because of it.

And Rachel just smiles and curtsies whenever Finn is around like he's some king, which he honestly isn't. He isn't that great, smart, or good-looking and even someone like Rachel could do better.

You scroll through your contacts to confirm what you were really looking for: you don't have Rachel's number. You were planning on texting her to inform her that Baby-What's-Her-Face is doing well, but whatever. It was probably best that you didn't have her number anyway.

Two hours of doing homework and a twenty minute shower later and steam is chasing you out of the bathroom. You walk into your room to find the baby lying there in the middle of your bed beside your beeping phone. Scooping it up, you open it to find a message from an unknown number.

_Hi, Quinn, it's Rachel. I hope this doesn't bother you too much, but I acquired your number from Finn, and wanted to inquire about the well-being of our baby. Please text me back as expeditiously as you possibly can._

_-Rachel Berry *_

Your eyes roll at the stupid asterisk in an attempt to ignore the stupid fluttering in your stomach because Rachel called the baby yours and hers, _ours_.

And you're not sure what this feeling is but it tingles, and it makes you uncomfortable as thoughts of Rachel settle heavily in your head. You compose a reply, and bite your lip as you obsess over what to say.

_Hey, Berry. Should have known you'd stalk your way to my number. The baby's fine, btw._

You stare at your reply for a moment. It sounds aloof enough to you and you hit send, then contemplate texting Finn and berating him for giving Rachel your number.

* * *

The baby still doesn't have a name, which you don't really care about, but Rachel's been stressing over it all day and it's been making you stress to the point where you're on top of the pyramid at Cheerios practice and the only thing you can think about is the way Rachel whipped her hair around today in the hallway between classes and stalked off to the library for her free period to look up baby names.

You skip glee club sometimes and you definitely skipped today for practice or Sue would have your head—she's told you so—and you rather like your head. It's pretty and blonde and guaranteed to score you a good husband in ten plus years, if this Finn thing doesn't pan out, and you surprisingly find yourself increasingly hoping it doesn't.

Your support literally _drops_ out from under you and your stomach bottoms out as you feel yourself fall back to the ground. You're caught by your team, then promptly dropped again as a lesson to pay attention. You know Sue ordered it, and the smirk on Santana's face as she glares down at you makes your cheeks burn in mortification.

"Hit the showers!"

You spring up, thankful that practice is over, and when Sue doesn't tell you to run laps your shoulders slump in relief.

Santana's hip checks you as she walks by, spinning around to face you with a mocking grin. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing," you mutter. She's like a wolf that can smell weakness and vulnerability from a mile away like fresh blood and she always likes to capitalize on it. "Just tired, that's all."

Santana shrugs off the reply like it doesn't interest her and spins back around to fall in step beside you. "How's being partnered with _Berry_?"

"Lame," is your automatic reply, but it's only been a day and aside from blatantly flirting with Finn in your presence, Rachel really hasn't been that bad.

"Can't be as lame as Puck. All I do is hold the baby and sit while he plays video games all day. We're so gonna fail."

You giggle at the prospect that you aren't alone in this awkward project and clasp your hands behind your back. "Make him turn the game off every once in a while."

"I would, but then he'd be pawing all over me."

"Like you don't like it," you drawl sarcastically.

Santana looks away then and you assume you've gotten the best of her and look away toward the school building…where Rachel is standing just outside the door with the baby on her hip, looking at you expectantly.

Her hip is cocked out with attitude you're kind of amused to find directed at you. Santana slides right past her without a glance in her direction and walks into the building. Your steps slow until you're a couple of feet in front of her. "Can I help you?"

It seems that at the sound of your voice Rachel immediately disarms herself and walks down the steps until she isn't taller than you anymore and standing directly in front of you. She looks at you for a moment, then her head ducks bashfully and your eyes pop widely open at the sight of it. She looks back up at you then and your neck feels hot as she bites her lip to stifle a smile. "I've thought of a name," Rachel says quietly.

You've never heard her voice sound this way, and a part of you wants to sway closer to it. "What?" you murmur just as lowly and Rachel looks at you weirdly for a moment, but then she's smiling again as if she likes it, and your lips twitch.

"Lucy."

Your face falls and Rachel's does as well in reaction before she quickly backtracks. "Do you not like it? I just—it's really pretty and it was on the list of baby names I looked up on this website, and it means 'light' and you know how parents think of their children as the light of their lives? Well, I really see our baby as, you know, the same. And…this is stupid, isn't it?"

You're not sure when your eyes fell heavily on Rachel's lips, but the second she stops talking, you snap out of it. You had liked your birth name, Lucy, very much until middle school rolled around. Since then you've abhorred it so much that you even changed your name, but you had never known that your name, so common and mundane, actually means _light_, something so positive and essential, and something akin to pride settles warmly in your chest at the thought.

"It's not stupid, no." You shake your head. "We can name her that, if you'd like." You don't bother to tell her that's your actual name, because you don't want to open up that can of worms just yet, or ever.

Rachel squeals in excitement, and the next thing you know she's wrapping an arm around you. It wraps around your neck and squeezes as she holds the baby to the side in an embrace that would have been unsafe were this baby actually real, and you're kind of smug right now at the thought that hugging you is more important than this fake baby's safety in Rachel's eyes.

Your hand touches her waist and you start to feel excited as your tongue swipes over your lip. But you're not even sure why, because you've hugged girls before, Brittany and Santana, but something about this feels forbidden.

She steps closer in reaction to your touch and suddenly you feel her breasts, small and firm molding softly against your own, and you exhale raggedly as your lower stomach begins to ache.

"This is going to be wonderful," Rachel tells you, and your voice is gargled as you just push the word, "Yeah," past your lips in a choked sigh.

* * *

You're pretty sure you've hit puberty.

And not the puberty in the sense that you're growing breasts and getting your period because, been there, done that. But puberty in the sense that you're starting to become attracted to the most random things like low, intimate tones of voices, people innocently brushing against various parts of your body, hugging.

And, okay, it's not _people_ these attractions are presenting themselves to you. It's _Rachel_, which is random, but as long as you don't have to admit it out loud, you can at least admit it to yourself in your pitch black bedroom, under your blankets at—you glance at the clock on your nightstand—two in the morning.

You had woken up in a bit of a sweat with your blankets bunched around your waist from a vague dream that included Rachel's hips, as boy-like as they were. You wonder if _she's_ hit puberty yet because those boy hips are a little lacking, but she's clearly miles ahead of you when it comes to being attracted to people. But then again, everyone's miles ahead of you. Santana and Brittany had been hooking up with each other since late last year when all three of you were freshmen and you hadn't even had your first kiss yet.

And even before then, Brittany had lost her virginity already, and so had Santana. You're the only one clinging to yours as if you have the most sanctified pussy in Ohio.

You groan and jerk your head to the side at your own thoughts, clamping your eyes shut. Since when do you think about the word _pussy_? It's coarse and grotesque. You have a vagina. Brittany and Santana have vaginas that they like to rub up against each other, not that you have a problem with that.

Even RuPaul Berry has a vagina, and you kind of wonder what she does with it. She probably touches it; she's gross like that. And she'd probably be wet with thoughts of Finn because she has no idea how gross that hairy, pudgy belly of his is up close. And that loud mouth of hers probably wouldn't be able to keep quiet once she gets going, those damn lips never closed, only open and wanton as she licks them until they glisten.

You don't even try to rationalize your own actions when your hand wanders inexpertly into your underwear—only wonder if Rachel does it better. You've always compared yourself to her, but that was only because Finn wouldn't ever stop thinking about her, and you've always wondered what she has that you don't. And maybe this is it. Experience. Dexterous fingers. Fingers that glide through her _pussy_ with ease unlike yours that keep slipping over the abundance of wetness weeping from your sanctified vagina, and why are you so warm down there?

You come anyway, quietly sobbing with pleasure and mortification, because this is your first orgasm. Brittany, Santana, even Finn had exited your thoughts about two minutes ago.

Only Rachel remained.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Revelation

**Pairing: **Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry

**Rating: **R

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.

**Summary: **You're pretty sure you've hit puberty. And not the puberty in the sense that you're growing breasts and getting your period because, been there, done that. But puberty in the sense that you're starting to be attracted to the most random things like low tones of voices, people innocently brushing against various parts of your body, hugging.

**A/N: **In a way, this was written for **ReaperLuca** who very nicely asked for a sequel whenever I had the chance. And I'm just a sucker for good manners.

* * *

It doesn't occur to you until three days later, when you finally allow yourself to think back to that night, that you basically masturbated to thoughts of Rachel Berry masturbating. Which is really gross, and you're beyond embarrassed and disgusted with yourself.

Good girls don't masturbate.

Good girls don't think about other girls.

You've done both things.

Which basically boils down to the fact that…you're not a good girl.

And you're probably not completely straight either, which makes you want to grab the nearest brown paper bag and hyperventilate into it until you pass out and hopefully never wake up again.

This baby project has opened up a new side of you that you didn't even know existed. It's like a lame arm—the thoughts you keep having—and you would rather cut it off than have it forever. As if you're Pandora and you've been given a box, all the evil sins of the flesh are wreaking havoc on you and you don't really know what to do about it except make sure you don't masturbate again, which shouldn't be that hard because your masturbation techniques left a lot to be desired, but there's no way you're going to actually take time to _perfect_ them. It was a one-time thing. Something you aren't going to do again, and certainly not while thinking of Rachel Berry.

You don't lie down with other girls. You don't lie down with anyone _at_ _all_, except with yourself that one time three days ago, but you've already decided you weren't going to do that again, so that's not a problem. Pray, repent, let it go.

It's the best you can do.

* * *

"Good morning, Quinn!"

You flinch at the unexpected greeting and look down to find Rachel grinning up at you with the baby in her arms. Since giving the baby your name you've kind of felt some form of attachment to it. It's…almost cute, and it looks like a Lucy, and now you're sounding like Berry, so you stop with that train of thought.

"Morning," you sigh and close your locker, because you know she's waiting to walk you to class, and you don't want her to be late to her own.

"She was wonderful last night," Rachel gushes as the two of you start down the hallway. "Didn't make a sound—I still think she's just like you. She's very pensive and so very pretty like you, and—"

You smile, thinly, and your cheeks warm, though not enough to flush your face. Objectively, you know you're pretty. You didn't choose your nose just to end up as some average band geek. But the way Rachel compliments you sounds so reverent, like no other pretty girl besides you exists in the world, and you don't know what to do with the stupid fluttering in your stomach.

"Thanks."

She stops talking to gaze up at your profile for a long moment and you refuse to look back. But you still see her smile from the corner of your eye. "You're welcome," Rachel says quietly.

The two of you bypass Finn, and you spare him a glance before pointedly looking away. Rachel waves with a toothy grin, though remains diligently by your side, and the sour look Finn's face twists into as the two of you walk away just makes your _day_.

You arrive at geometry and spin around until the pleats of your skirt flit about your thighs. "I'll see you later."

Rachel's eyes pop open just a bit wider like she wasn't expecting this to end so soon. Then she nods and haphazardly slings an arm around your waist as if this hug is a last minute thought. She pulls away much quicker than she had the last time you guys hugged, a week ago, and you frown. But then Rachel tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and adopts a bashful stance, and suddenly you're curious. "A-actually, Quinn, I was wondering if you would perhaps like to hang out this weekend." She must notice the look of utter terror that crosses your face, because she backtracks instantly. "F-for the baby's sake, of course," Rachel rationalizes. "I think it's imperative that we form a cohesive bond for the sake of baby Lucy, and perhaps us spending time together crossed my mind once or twi—"

"Hey, Rach!"

The fiery rage that engulfs you is immediate. Your eyes cut to Finn rushing to Rachel's side. He's all toothy grin and oversized hands tucked into his pockets. You know Rachel finds it charming and you refuse to watch her cream herself at the sight of him.

"Hi, Finn," Rachel says in a soft voice, and you are so done.

You swivel around, though you doubt either of them notice. "Later."

You miss the way Rachel hesitates, the way her hand kind of reaches toward you, the way she bites the corner of her lip as she sometimes does when she's conflicted.

Instead all you hear is her say, "Have a nice class, Quinn."

An unknown force makes you glance over your shoulder to find Rachel walking down the hallway with Finn. Your eyes, not for the first time, scan over her body in silent comparison or maybe appreciation as Rachel continues down the hallway. You try your best to ignore the vomit inducing sack of potatoes by her side.

The image of her walking away remains in your mind's eye as you draw an infinity symbol in your notebook, twenty minutes into class. It has absolutely nothing to do with an isosceles triangle, but the more you trace over the symbol and distort it just a tad, the more it starts to look like…Rachel's ass—two small bubbles under a too short skirt.

You lick your lips and continue tracing the symbol until you have to flip to another page to continue taking notes, but the shape of the infinity symbol, Rachel's ass, has left an impression on the next page.

Right then and there you decide you don't like puberty. It just bombards your mind with all these absurd thoughts that you've never had before that create even more absurd feelings that you've never _felt_ before and you don't know what to do with any of them.

You're not an experienced girl by anyone's definition. You can't just go out and pick up a random boyfriend because, yeah, you have options, but then they'll just expect you to kiss them and want you to touch their penises, and you're not ready for penis touching just yet. You can't even touch your own vagina without feeling three shades of guilty the next day; there's no way you're going to touch a boy's penis, because pregnancy would be right around the corner from that.

You don't want to be pregnant; that's mortifying.

You sigh and your eyes squint as you rest your chin on the knuckles of your closed fist and stare forward to the dry erase board ahead. You don't know what you want. You're not used to wanting things from other people, only things from yourself, like being skinny and popular.

You depend on yourself, never on anyone else, so the thought of wanting another person is kind of peculiar in its novelty.

And deathly terrifying.

* * *

Santana and Brittany make out in front of you—a lot.

They mostly do it because Santana knows it bothers you, and Brittany's like a freight train once she gets going, nearly impossible to stop in a timely fashion.

It's gross and you mostly train your eyes on the T.V. while your jaw locks in irritation because even though you don't look at them you can still _hear_ them, the wet smack of their lips, Santana's whimpers, which used to surprise you because there's nothing about her cold, bitchy outer demeanor that suggests that she'd let loose these girlish pleading sounds, but she does.

And Brittany's kind of a top, and by kind of, she's _really_ a top, which also surprised you. But maybe, in relationships, what you see in public is the exact opposite of what happens behind closed doors.

Except, you think of Finn, and you completely dominated him, mind and body, in the public eye and behind closed doors. He rarely made a decision without consulting you, and he hardly ever made a move unless you said it was okay, except for that time he grabbed your ass but the ten minute prayer you made him wait through afterward more than guaranteed he wouldn't do it again.

Not that you could blame him; your ass _is_ pretty amazing after all. Curvy and soft, plump—something you hadn't known was a good thing until high school when walking past guys would make them do a double take just to confirm what they had seen the first time.

Maybe your previous thought of public dynamics switching when in private is only applicable to lesbian couples. But you can't really see Rachel dominating you. Not that the two of you are a couple or anything, but—this is Rachel. You say jump and she asks _how_ _high_, which is very appealing and makes the corners of your lips tick upward. But Rachel is bossy in her own right, annoyingly so, and if there's anyone in this school who you would willingly submit to you can grudgingly admit it would be her.

When Santana moans just a little too loudly and Brittany's answering giggle is a little too flirtatious for you to handle, you stand up from the couch and stalk up the stairs. You reach the top step, but curiosity spins you back around to stare at them for a moment. They fit together, really intimately, in a way that's weird and makes you think of Rachel; and you don't want to think about her more than you have to, so your feet work double-time to take you to your room.

Lucy is with Rachel for the night and not lying still as stone in the middle of your bed, so you collapse onto your bed sheets and grab your phone.

You bite your lip and think of Puck because he had given you his number today and maybe a little innocent flirting with a boy will get you back on track before you end up masturbating to Rachel (maybe, _possibly_ dominating you, if only a little) again tonight.

_Hey._ _:)_

It's cute and unassuming, giving Puck the chance to steer the conversation, though with the way he was leering at you today in glee club, you can pretty much guess what he's interested in.

_Sup hottie ;)_

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at what a weak opening line that was and focus on a reply.

_How are you?_

You're not too social and thus, aren't really sure how people your age communicate. Your life outside of school basically consists of occasionally hanging out with Brittany and Santana while avoiding text messages from the other Cheerios because they want to hang out, Finn because he's been trying to get back on your good side since your break up, or any other loser whose somehow managed to get your number. All of this happens around weekly Bible study, choir rehearsal, and Sunday church.

The only person you don't really ignore outside of Brittany and Santana is Rachel, and you tell yourself it's because the two of you are working on a really important project.

Your phone chirps with a text message alert and you're slow to open it because so far Puck hasn't really piqued your interest, made your stomach flutter, made you smile. But the message isn't from Puck; it's from Rachel, which doesn't make you smile, but it does make your stomach flutter.

_Good evening, Quinn. I thought I'd inform you that baby Lucy, aside from soiling herself earlier in the afternoon, is all right. I may put her down for the night soon._

_-Rachel Berry *_

Your eyes trace the message over and over again while you wait for Puckerman to continue the conversation. You wonder why Rachel wastes so much time talking the long way around everything. Doesn't her mouth get exhausted from having to spend the entire day using twice as much vocabulary with twice as many syllables as the average person? Surely after a while it has to get tiring.

But Rachel's mouth seems adept at producing twice the necessary words, and you haven't been paying much attention, but her tongue seems capable enough to produce back to back three and four syllable words without tripping over itself.

A shaky breath bypasses your lips before you swipe your tongue over it. When your phone vibrates, you nearly jump out of your skin, littered with goose bumps. You turn your phone over to find a message from Puck.

_Been good. My pool business really took off over the summer since I got my nipple pierced. Chicks dig the ring. Wanna see?_

The heightened arousal you were ashamed to feel plummets almost instantly at the thought of Noah Puckerman without a shirt on, and right then and there you know there's something wrong with you. A shirtless Noah Puckerman was the wet dream of nearly every girl at McKinley. And here you are with the offering to see it being presented to you, and the only thing you can muster up excitement about is Rachel Berry's tongue.

You sigh.

* * *

You're…horny. And you feel _so_ dirty for feeling that way, but your panties are slick and there's an uncomfortable knot in your stomach that you can't shake.

The way Rachel wets her lower lip every time without fail after a long winded rant is the only thing on your mind at the moment while your hand twitches at your hip bone in indecision. Just a mere four days ago you had promised yourself that you wouldn't do this again. It was a one time, shameful thing—you weren't even _good_ at it enough to warrant an encore performance, but the way Rachel's tongue flicks out for just a moment before retreating into what is surely a warm, moist mouth _stimulates_ you.

More so than school, more so than Finn, more so than a topless Puckerman with a nipple ring, more so than Cheerios, more so than—

No.

No, you won't go there. What you're doing is already bad enough and if you remind yourself of just how much of a sin it is then you're going to chicken out. And you're far too gone to chicken out now.

The tip of your middle finger breaches the barrier of your cotton underwear and instead of feeling a tide of guilt wash over you, you only whine in the back of your throat because this isn't enough.

Your fingers fumble over the slippery moisture between your legs, but at least you know where to go this time. And you don't even try to think of Finn or Puck because you know it won't work and you want this to be over as soon as possible.

A few concentrated circles and you're there within five minutes, biting your lip until it bleeds to keep from moaning Rachel's name.

* * *

"Okay, class. How is everyone's baby doing?"

You lift your eyes from the novel you're engrossed in to pointedly glare at the teacher at the head of the classroom. Her hands are clasped in front of her as she exuberantly invites couples in the class to come forward and discuss their babies.

A sigh escapes you as you literally _feel_ Rachel's eyes burning through you. You cut her a look a few rows away, and she has this inquisitive expression on her face. You groan. Rachel wants to go first. Of course. You shake your head once and she firms her lips, but nods and looks away.

Things have been going a little smoother between the two of you. You don't talk often, but a little mutual understanding has formed with little effort. The two of you just seem to _get_ each other in spite of the fact that you're from different social realms, and you're trying your hardest to not read too much into it. The only reason Rachel understands you because she lusts after popularity almost as much as she lusts after your ex-boyfriend. And the only reason you kind of understand Rachel is because once upon a time many, many lifetimes ago you _were_ her.

That's it. That's all. There is no secret reason why the two of you can simply look at each other sometimes and just know what the other is thinking or feeling. There is no other explanation.

"Santana, Puck? How about the two of you come up and tell us about little Horatio?"

Quinn snickers at her friend's misfortune, and Santana kicks her desk as she walks by. She and Puck stand at the front of the room with bored expressions while Santana haphazardly cradles the baby at her side.

"This is Horatio Puckerman," she punctuates with an attitude.

Your eyes drift from Santana to Puck with little interest, and you wonder why he fails to attract you. He has the IQ of Finn, and though a little rowdier, would probably be a cake walk to reign in. Yet he doesn't interest you in the slightest. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you turn to Rachel, someone who has interested you in one way or another since you became aware of her existence via Finn.

You spend the next five minutes with half your brain lamenting over the fact that Rachel doesn't have a penis, because perhaps if she was a boy this whole thing would be a lot easier. Then again if she was boy she wouldn't have breasts and you can grudgingly admit that her breasts are kind of nice. Finn complains about any pair of boobs that are less than a C cup, and though Brittany's breasts are nice, they're kind of too big for you. Rachel's breasts are almost like pecks, which would make this transition into liking girls a lot smoother, and you smirk evilly at the thought that you can still make fun of her, that you're not _that_ far gone.

The smirk is instantly gone though, once Santana walks past you and you realize that you've been staring at Rachel for five minutes, wishing she had a penis so all of this could be easier, but also acknowledging that you're unwilling to sacrifice her breasts in the process.

Rachel turns to look at you then, and her eyebrows knit at the deer in headlights expression on your face. But you can't look away. Call it fear, refusal to back down, or complete bewilderment, but you can't look away. You completely expect Rachel to decide that you're a weirdo, look away, then beg your teacher for a partner change after class, but the strangest thing happens.

She smiles, full on, with a touch of amusement twitching her lips.

But it's a smile you recognize, something you've seen before.

Something you've seen…directed at Finn. It's closed lipped, and her eyes are wider than usual in this earnest way. It's her flirtatious smile, you quickly realize after having spent two weeks examining it, and your stomach bottoms out completely.

The dumbfounded look on your face is entirely out of your control at the moment, and Rachel's expression turns bashful under your continued gaze. She bites the corner of her lip, gives you a once over, then turns back around in her seat.

"Jeffery and Tiffany? Please come up and tell us about your baby."

Your hands feel clammy, which is all types of gross and has to be a side effect of the way you've been acting lately or something. Did Rachel Berry just blatantly flirt with you? You tell yourself you have to be seeing things because Rachel is straight and _so are you_. Which means even if she was flirting with you, you shouldn't be noticing.

But you did notice. And you're ninety-nine percent sure she was flirting with you, because you've studied that smile down to microscopic detail, and it was flawlessly executed in your direction just now. Inhaling a calming breath, you try to not notice the cliché pitter and patter of your heart and face forward again.

That is until you hear a pointed _psst_ aimed at you. You turn to find Santana staring you dead on with a pensive expression wrinkling her brow. Your jaw works in irritation at the fact that she noticed the exchange between you and Rachel—something that was meant to be a private moment—and you scramble for some type of excuse. But all Santana does is tilt her head as her expression turns knowing, and all you want to do is vomit right onto these tiled floors. She gives you a once over like she's seeing you for the first time before she turns back to the front of the room.

Heart palpitating in anxiety, you turn to face the front as well, hoping Santana drew different conclusions from the ones you're thinking about. You're just rounding the thought of how the slogan _Quinn Fabray is Totally Gay_ could ruin your entire _life_ when you hear—

"Quinn? Rachel? You're up."

Rachel turns to shine a bright smile on your dark thoughts before she scoops the baby in her arms and literally skips to the front of the classroom. You slide out of your seat and do your best to roll your shoulders back and place your worries in the back of your mind for a moment. When you reach the head of the classroom, Rachel smiles a bit wider and shuffles closer. She extends her arms _Lion King_ style to show off the baby to the room.

"This is Lucy Berry-Fabray," she announces, and you feel your face warm. "She is just over two weeks old and our little bundle of joy. Her favorite color is yellow—just like Quinn's, and at only two weeks, Lucy already enjoys a plethora of musicals—something I believe she inherited from yours truly." Rachel caps off her description of Lucy with a simple kiss to the plastic doll's head before she shyly glances up at you, then away to survey the rest of the class.

The teacher looks at both of you in encouragement. "Is there something you'd like to add, Quinn?"

You're too amazed and kind of flattered that Rachel's learned your favorite color to even come up with a response, so you shake your head no. "I think Rachel's covered it all," you opt in a low voice.

Rachel takes it as a compliment and curtsies in front of the class before returning to her seat.

You settle in yours and gnaw into your lower lip as you try to recall the last time anyone has ever made you feel like this.

Appreciated.

* * *

Santana's been cutting you weird looks all practice and you're caught between wanting to get in her face and telling her to back off, and scurrying away from her gaze because you know she knows.

When practice ends, you hightail it out of there and jog off the field. You don't even bother to change out of your uniform in the locker room, and grab your bag before storming out of the school. By the time you make it to your car, you can hear Santana calling after you.

You school your features almost instantly. Your eyebrows ease into impassiveness as your lips press into a hard line. You release the tension in your shoulders before turning around to face Santana coming to a full stop in front of you. "What is it?" There's more bark to your voice than you intended, and by the tightening of Santana's eyes, you can tell she noticed.

"Lose the attitude, okay, Fabray? 'Cause I know all about your little secret."

Without meaning to, you curl your lips back to bare your teeth. "I don't know what you're talking about, Santana."

Santana shakes her head and tacks, "Save it," rudely onto the end of your sentence. "If you think you can make lusty moon eyes at Berry all class period and have me not notice, you're wrong."

"Maybe you should get your damn eyes checked," you hiss back in defense. "Because you have no idea what you're talking about."

Santana's eyes flash, and in an instant her defensive posture lessens. She takes a step back as the combative expression on her face eases. "Look, Q, you're talking to the girl who you caught motor boating Brittany under the bleachers a couple of months ago. I know a lesbian when I see one. And the way the two of you were looking at each other screamed you wanted to fuck each other's brains out to some Dido then fall asleep reading a romance novel."

Your eyebrows knit in apprehension as you bite your lip. Curiosity wins out. "Are you saying she looks at me the same way?"

Santana eyes you strangely for a second before she huffs out a laugh that sounds almost indignant at your audacity to inquire about the way Rachel looks at you. "I never thought this day would come," she mutters to herself. Then much louder, "We've got a lot of work to do."

* * *

After nearly strangling Santana for spending the last half hour making fun of you, Brittany calmly places a hand on your shoulder, explains that you're capital G gay and tells you that you aren't alone before you have the chance to blubber your dignity away. She explains that she's bilateral, and Santana manages to correct her and glare threateningly at you before you even get the chance to realize what Brittany was trying to say in the first place. You reason you're bisexual, too, until Santana asks you a series of questions that basically lend themselves to the fact that—

"You've never even been attracted to Finn, or any boy beyond how popular they are. Nice try with Finn, though—you know, with the man-boobs. But they aren't the real thing," Santana informs you.

Your mouth opens and closes in indignation, but before you could offer a rebuttal, Brittany intervenes. "So, you like Rachel."

It isn't a question, so you can't really scream _no_ at the top of your lungs without sounding like a closet case. Instead you swallow down the instinct to, and glower at the two of them for even suggesting Rachel would be someone you'd be interested in.

Brittany doesn't wilt under you glare like you'd hoped, and only offers you a sympathetic tut. "Q, she's the only girl you've ever been interested in this way."

"_What_ way?" you challenge through gritted teeth.

Santana sighs. "Okay, we're doing this my way. Quinn, Berry's been the only person you've shown _any_ interest in, romantic or otherwise."

You shake your head vehemently. "I don't show any romantic intere—"

"You _pursue_ her _daily_ one way or another."

"I do not!"

"You _joined_ glee club for crying out loud!"

"To get my boyfriend back!" you roar in an attempt to be heard and understood.

"You stalked her at every turn in the hallways just to get her attention before this baby project forced her to notice you on a regular basis!"

The comment feels like a blow to the gut because of the implication that Rachel doesn't _notice_ you, and you can tell Santana knows she got you there. "I did that because she was all over _my_ _boyfriend_!"

Santana scoffs and folds her arms across her chest. "You draw pornographic pictures of her in the girls' bathroom!"

"It's not like they're in great detail or anything!" you stipulate as your heart pounds beneath your breast. Your jaw clenches in discomfort as you take a step back. "I drew her with a penis and moustache for crying out loud!"

"Because you can't handle the fact that you're attracted to a bona fide girl, Q." She shrugs her shoulders. "I mean, I know we always call her a tranny, and Man-Hands, and RuPaul…but she's a girl, Quinn."

You feel your eyes sting with traitorous tears. "Santana…"

"A girl who you've pursued since you found out about her. A girl you stood toe to toe with Sue Sylvester for…just to make sure she got her page in the yearbook."

Your eyes swirl with emotion despite the fact that they harden in threat. "San_tana_," you say more forcefully.

"What do you call something like that, Q?" Santana contests. "Because from where I'm standing, I'd call it a big ole lesbian crush."

And just like that the dam breaks. Tears are streaking down your face before you even have the chance to process that you're crying. And you really, really want to resist Santana's comforting arms wrapping around you, but you know she's already been through this process and if anyone can help you sort your thoughts out right now, it's her.

Because Santana's definitely capital G gay.

And so are you.


End file.
